


Small Mercies

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:44:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock had catalogued the signs long before he and John had become lovers.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Mercies

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in December of 2010.

Sherlock had catalogued the signs long before he and John had become lovers: approximately twelve hours of enhanced irritability, weakness in John's affected leg, and tremors in his left hand so fine that he seems to be completely unaware of them. In short, not a list that can be raised without upsetting him. Sherlock had tried once, with the aim of helping John to find a solution—dietary, perhaps, or homeopathic; ayurveda was an attractive choice, as there _was_ that practitioner who owed him a favor—but the result had been John scarcely speaking to him for a week.

Terrifying enough that, by the end of said week, Sherlock had risked the kiss that he was certain would've spelled the end. Worth it, that one instant of startled bliss, what when he had believed he'd already damaged their relationship beyond repair. Worth it, in the end, because, once John had recovered from the shock of Sherlock's tongue coaxing its way past his lips, he'd tumbled Sherlock onto the sofa and stripped them skin-to-skin inside ten minutes. They'd spent the night there, but they hadn't slept.

A fortnight on, they've settled into Sherlock's bed. Sherlock finds it neatly made up each evening, doubtless John's work, duvet hand-scrubbed of the previous evening's indiscretions (often, they don't even bother to kick down the covers).

Tonight, they've straggled in early. It's almost midnight, and, although tapas at one of their favorite late-night haunts seems to have slightly improved John's mood, Sherlock knows that they're on course for the unavoidable. Given the uneventfulness of their nights over the past two weeks, Sherlock had begun to wonder if regular sex was the answer. Once they're in the bedroom, John is content to kiss and be kissed, but when Sherlock slips a hand tentatively down the front of John's shorts, he tenses.

“Rather knackered, I'm afraid,” is all he says, and presses an apologetic kiss against Sherlock's jaw before rolling away to turn off the bedside lamp. 

Sherlock turns to the wall in a quiet panic, one hand fisted in the duvet, the other splayed helplessly against the mattress. Unexpectedly, John spoons up close behind him, draping his right arm possessively over Sherlock's hip. His left hand is tucked somewhere out of reach, so it's impossible for Sherlock to determine if the tremors have stopped. As if to distract him from wondering, John nuzzles Sherlock's nape and pushes Sherlock's pyjama bottoms down just far enough to free Sherlock's waning erection. John's touch is nearly always enough to reverse such a trend, and it isn't long before Sherlock comes, shaking and gasping silently into his pillow.

John kisses his shoulder sleepily, drifts off within minutes.

Clean-up in darkness isn't easy, but Sherlock has it down to a science. By the time he tosses his ill-used pillowcase over the foot of the bed, John is sleeping soundly enough to snore. With eyes wide open, Sherlock settles down beside him to wait. He's drowsy, though, his limbs heavy with guilt-ridden pleasure. He rests his head against John's shoulder, lulled into a sense of security by the steady rise and fall of John's chest.

Sherlock is awake and flattened against the wall before John can lash out a second time. He watches, heartbeat racing, too stunned to move. John collapses, grating out half-formed pleas between sobs that seem intent upon tearing him limb from limb.

 _You idiot_ , Sherlock thinks. _Do something._

John doesn't struggle when Sherlock pulls him in so close and tight that it's a wonder either of them can breathe. They're both trembling, Sherlock realizes, as if the dream has touched him, too, bits and fragments absorbed through the press of flesh. John's clinging to him now, mouthing traces of tears across Sherlock's exposed collarbone.

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Christ, Sherlock, I'm sorry_ —

“No,” Sherlock breathes, burying his face in John's damp hair. “No reason to be.”

John nods, quick and curt, his shaky laugh vibrating through them both.

“I'm not worried for my own safety,” Sherlock tells him. “I'm worried for _yours_.”

The statement has implications beyond John's nightmares, and they both know it.

“I'll talk to that specialist, if you like,” John says, his voice exhausted, but settled.

“I'll do some more reading,” replies Sherlock, quietly. “There's got to be something.”

“Should've taken you up on a shag,” John mutters ruefully, kissing Sherlock's neck.

“That had crossed my mind,” Sherlock admits, “but I can't say for sure.”

“Don't waste time doing research on my account. You've got a case.”

“Quite frankly,” Sherlock says, “the case can go hang.”

They're quiet for a long while after that, still wrapped in each other's arms.

John takes a deep breath. “I could be jumping the gun, but...”

“One of your many talents,” Sherlock says. “For which I'm grateful.”

John swats him on the backside, and Sherlock retaliates with a pinch.

“Do you mean it?” John asks. “About the case?”

“Yes,” whispers Sherlock, and it's not difficult at all, nowhere near as trying as he'd feared, this fierce confession that he's so far gone that he has no desire to find his way back.

“Go back to sleep,” John says, but what he means is that he's just as willingly lost.


End file.
